She watched them as they disappeared, conscious of them, but not thinking of them.

They looked like rose-leaves, they were so pure; and how silently they sank into the darkness below! And if she had confessed she loved, thought Hope, how would it be with that girl now?
Might she not be standing in the twilight, watching her young hopes scattered like rose-leaves and disappearing in the dark?
She clasped her hands before her, and walked gently up and down the room.
The full moon was rising, and the tender, tranquil light streamed through the trees into her chamber.
But, she thought, since she did not--since the young girl dreamed, perhaps only for a moment, perhaps so very vaguely, of what might have been--she has given nothing, she has lost nothing.

There was a pleasant day which she remembers, far back in her childhood--oh! so pleasant! oh! so sunny, and flowery, and serene! A pleasant day, when something came that never comes--that never can come--but once.
She stopped by the window, and looked out to see if she could yet discover any signs of the scattered paper.

She strained her eyes down toward the ground.

But it was entirely dark there.